


Divine Intervention

by fightthosefairies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gore, H-e-double-hockey-sticks, Hell is a place, M/M, Pit!Dean, References to Torture, What Dreams May come inspiration, and Dean's Hell is a very special place, if everybody gets their own Heaven then I figured everybody would also get their own Hell, mcd is Dean way back in season 3, special hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:30:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightthosefairies/pseuds/fightthosefairies
Summary: God will never get over Dean Winchester.





	Divine Intervention

_"It's just a simple line ... I can still hear it, all of the time..._ "Displaced," by Azure Ray  
  
  
  
The silence is penetrating, chilled like the stone and cement surrounding them. They all look to each other – Sam and Dean and Bobby – and there are no words. No yelled commands from Dean, no pleading entreaties from Sam, no accusations of intolerable idjitry from Bobby. Just... silence.  
  
Only moments ago, Castiel pronounced himself God and bade them all – profess your love unto me or I shall destroy you. Spoken as calmly as though he hadn't just threatened three of the human beings he'd been closest to in his time on this ball of dirt and rock and filth.  
  
And then that _awful_ silence.  
  
"I understand," Castiel says at last, softly, folding his hands before him. The warmth of millions of souls permeates throughout every pore, every follicle, but the warmest spot is in his vessel's torso, filling his gut and swelling up into his chest and head. He feels, finally, surprisingly... at peace. _Righteous_. "This is all very overwhelming for the three of you. It's not often that mortals find themselves in the presence of a living deity. The... living deity."  
  
Bobby's mouth opens and almost as soon as it does, he's twisting it closed again with a resentful glower, like that trick with the invisible key that Castiel had seen other humans do in front of each other. Secrets kept. But there would be no more secrets. It had been secrets that had brought this into happening and had cost him everything, but now … the reward was his. That wasn't to say he was greedy – oh, no. He would share his prize with his loved ones.  
  
Castiel's eyes turn from Bobby to Sam, whose hands hang limply at his sides, fingers twitching ferociously – fitfully. To his right, he can hear a sharp intake of breath. Dean. He can also hear the way Dean's heartbeat begins to frantically jackhammer along in his veins, breath quickening.  
  
"It's all right, Sam," Castiel says in that same low, hushed voice. "I forgive you. I already told you: I'll be a better God, a forgiving God. I won't allow what happened to the two of you to happen to any other child again. You have my word." Sam doesn't relax, not even a centimeter and only tenses further as Castiel approaches slowly. "I also gave you my word that I would fix what I had broken. I shall be a Lord who keeps His promises, Sam."  
  
For his part, Sam shies away from that hand fearfully, his physical response instinctive. "Uhh, well, if it's all the same to you – no, thanks," he mutters, arms crossing over his chest as he rather pitifully attempts to shrink into himself, make himself smaller. "I'm cool."  
  
"You're certain?" Castiel asks, with that characteristic incline of his head, even as he reaches up with one hand –  
  
There's a gasp and Castiel can hear (if not see – at least not with his vessels' eyes) the shifting of feet on the rough concrete floor. "Dean!" Bobby snarls and the shifting noises cease. It was a warning sound – and it's so effortless, now, to listen in on Bobby's thoughts. _Don't you dare make a move on him now, ya numskull! If ya thought he was hard to handle before, how d'you think you're gonna sneak up on him when he's just turned hisself into a goddamned brimstone-slingin' **God**?!_  
  
Castiel doesn't tell Bobby he can hear every thought that flitters through his half-panicked mind – worries split in two but no less intense for it, terrified for both of these young men, his boys, the closest thing Bobby will ever have to children of his own. Castiel gives Sam a deferential nod and backs away, hands held out yieldingly at his sides.  
  
"As you like," he says carefully. Then, he turns to Dean, whose fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white like bone. "Dean..." he begins, only to realize as soon as he's finished speaking the man's name, he's at a loss for words. So many things he can share, so much wisdom and understanding to impart, now. Things that will help Dean to understand, to love him. He takes a few tentative steps, reaching out with his right hand. "It would please me to speak with you. Alone. For a while."  
  
He sees Dean clenching his teeth behind pursed lips, eyes swimming with tears and pain and fright. Still, ever the sacrificing man, he nods. "Yeah," he spits out. "All right, man."  
  
Castiel smiles and it's the first real smile he's felt shift the muscles in his vessel's face. Smiling so hard that it almost hurts, but it's a good hurt – a welcome ache. He hasn't had much to smile about of late and he's so unspeakably _grateful_ for it. "Thank you," he says and he clears his throat a bit, the wattage of his smile dimming a bit when he sees he uneasy expression on Dean's face. He puts away the searchlights and moves to Dean, a hand settling gently on his shoulder, the palm of his hand coming to rest over the mark the older Winchester brother still bears. His mark. "Come."  
  
The trip is short and goes much more smoothly than it used to, when he was merely an angel of the Lord rather than the actual Lord and savior Himself. Rather than a disconcerting popping out of one space and popping back into a new location, now it's more a subtler shift, the cold concrete basement melting away and leaving behind another cold place. The place Castiel had, only just a few short days before, retreated to, to seek counsel. From a God, a father, who had made it patently clear that He was no longer interested in the trifles of the mortals – His most-beloved creations – drowning in their sticky tears and blood and sin.  
  
Those words from Dean and Sam, related in hesitant, almost apologetic fits and starts, had been the final slight. To know that Father had created these creatures, these humans, had made an entire world for them and filled it with wondrous and deadly and beautiful things, favoring them above all of His other creations, even himself and all of his brothers... only to turn His back on them, too, had been enough to shake his boundless faith to its very foundations. It had been a devastating realization.  
  
They're settled for a total of three seconds, the two of them standing there together, when Dean finally blinks and glances around. A beautiful wilderness-style garden covered in a delicate, glittering layer of freshly fallen snow.  
  
"Whoa..." Dean whispers before he can stop himself. He turns to Castiel, a smile starting to form on his lips as he meets his steady gaze, expression loaded with 'did that really just happen or am I totally just trippin' balls right now--?'. The smile quickly gutters out and Dean's expression becomes shuttered again, tense, suspicious. "So..."  
  
"So," Castiel says, a serene smile of his own forming and fitting into place. "You're wondering why I asked you to join me." The suspicion in Dean's eyes ramps up by a factor of ten and Castiel reaches up, hand settling on his shoulder properly before he slides it down along the length of Dean's arm in a careful, well-intentioned stroke. "I know you have questions. I know you're scared, Dean. But I promise you: you have nothing to fear from me. You will never have anything to fear from me; not you, or Sam or Bobby."  
  
"Yeah, so long as I take a knee and kiss your ass, right?" Dean snarks back before he can stop himself and then his lips immediately press and thin into a hard, white line to match the hard, white streaks of bone-colored skin over his knuckles.  
  
The corner of Castiel's mouth quirks barely half an inch. "You would not be the Dean Winchester I have come to know if you didn't fight me," he admits. "But, in time, I feel optimistic that you will make peace with this and with me and all will be well for us again."  
  
And then, because he wills it to be so, tiny, pristine white flakes of snow begin to flutter down around them. Dean looks around, caught off guard by the sight, and for just a moment, the suspicion bleeds out and the worry creases between his eyebrows smooth away.  
  
"You don't remember, do you?" Castiel whispers as he sidles in closer, moving to stand beside Dean, shoulder to shoulder. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat – his, now, because if it's not Jimmy Novak's, then it's no one's – and tips his head back watching the tender deluge coming down on the two of them. "When I came for you and pulled you out, brought you back? Even then, even in the darkest, forgotten recesses of the pit, you hesitated. You had forgotten yourself, your humanity, and were rending souls asunder. Your very salvation was standing before you and still, you fought me."  
  
"Yeah, well. There probably wasn't much left of the real me by the time you found me," Dean says, voice gruff, though Castiel can see him tip his own head back to gaze at the flurries of snow.  
  
_Lucifer had always been a creature of the cold and dark. Much like the Serpent, he retreated to cooler climes and dimmer lodgings – felt safer there. When Castiel had finally discovered the hell that Lucifer and Alistair had set aside, just for Dean, it had looked much like this. The sky had been very different, there. Pitch black and starless – the swirling cobalt of damned and captured souls filling it like altocumulus clouds – and against the whiteness of the snow, Castiel had had to take special care to make certain he wouldn't go snow blind.  
  
He'd finally found Dean on the hill, the thin crust of snow breaking and crunching and giving way beneath his boots as he advanced. There was an iron nail in his pocket, a flask of holy water with measure after measure of salt dissolved into it. Those were for the worst case scenario, he'd told himself, but they were more for the sake of ushering the victim of Dean's … craft into a place of forgiveness, where it would no longer know such torment. Either way, Dean would be leaving with him – of that much he'd been certain. He'd risked too much, lost too many allies in his search, to even so much as entertain the notion of the word 'relent'.  
  
The holy fire had blazed up within him, wings bared but mostly folded at his back, when he'd shouted his intentions.  
  
"DEAN WINCHESTER! I am come to lift you up from this place. Prepare yourself to be risen."  
  
The man – the Righteous Man Castiel had always heard so much about – had turned, then, a sluice of blood trickling from the blade his strong fingers clutched even as he pulled it from the manifestation of the soul he had been tormenting. Chains, dozens of black, wrought chains, dangled from unseen sources and large, angry hooks held the soul captive, piercing through thigh muscle, shoulder, bone, throat, it made no difference – so long as they were held and held fast.  
  
Dean Winchester had turned and looked at him and his eyes had been coal black, gleaming flat like cooling tar. That, he remembered so very well. Would never be able to push that to the back of his mind or banish from his memory. That and the stench. Sulfur, burning meat and the stench of blood and urine and salt tears. The bitter reek of terror.  
  
Whatever clothes had followed Dean Winchester's memories of himself into the pit had seen many years of abuse – the Righteous Man was shirtless, every inch of bared skin a mass of scar tissue. Decades of cuts and burns and raw, pink skin growing up in place of skin that had been flayed away, rendered his own spirit's manifestation barely recognizable, but for the soft light that Castiel could still see surrounding him. It had dimmed, of course – after forty years of torment, even a Righteous Man would start to lose hope – but it was that guttering flicker that Castiel had steered himself towards, like a ship following stars in a sky clogged with pea-soup fog. The only other clothes Dean wore were his denim pants, long since stained black with blood and ichor – his own, his victims' – and his boots were similarly ruined.  
  
The Righteous Man had gritted his teeth, fingers tightening around the knife's grip and he turned his back on the soul he had been disemboweling. With a careless flick of Dean's hand in the soul's direction, the chains snapped taut, dragging the soul up and up and out of sight, the poor, destroyed creature letting out a piercing scream that rang around them long after it had been yanked away.  
  
Castiel had never glimpsed Hell before he had agreed to enter. Had he known, had he only known, he still would have gone, but the sight of the tattered remains of a man standing before him had, just for one moment, taken him aback.  
  
"I am here to release you," he announced. "Our Father would have you come with me and be saved."  
  
The Righteous Man, the ruined man before him, snarled – **snarled** – and squared his body up, muscles tensed. The flat black of his eyes was barely visible for the way he squinted his eyes. Castiel wasn't sure if it was out of fear or rage or a mix of both, but regardless, beyond that tensing, Dean Winchester did not move.  
  
Castiel had frowned and took a few steps further up the hill, bringing him closer to his charge. The closer he got, the more harrowing the view became. For all those many years of torment at the hands of Hell's demons, Dean Winchester remained unhealed. There were gouges clear down to the bone, segments of flesh simply routed away from the body and discarded like refuse.  
  
"I would have your answer," he forced himself to continue, for angels of the Lord did not waver. "Will you lay down your steel and leave with me willingly? Or shall I drag you from here by force?"  
  
Another dangerous animal growl, then, from Dean and something in him must have known, must have recognized Castiel for what he was, the Lord's love for him burning deep in his chest, and for the first time in what must have been a very long time, the ruined man was frightened. He took half a step back, mouth opening in a warning bellow and it was then that Castiel could see why he had not answered. In his time there, one of the demons had torn out his tongue by the root and tiny glints of light caught his eye, reflected from the back of Dean's throat. Millions of tiny, razor sharp slivers of glass. Or was it frost or ice? There was no way to know for certain.  
  
Something deep down inside Castiel quailed at the sight; a cold wash of horror filled him and yet he made himself continue forward, even as Dean retreated, black eyes already searching from one side to the other, as if awaiting rescue from his very own rescuer.  
  
"I mean to do you no further harm," Castiel said, his usually gravelly voice gentling as he reached out. "I am here to –"`  
  
Dean let out another rageful howl and threw himself bodily forward, broad shoulders hunched and head lowered as he charged towards him, shoulder connecting with Castiel's midsection. It knocked the breath from his lungs, both from the force as well as the surprise of it, and both of Castiel's hands clamped down onto Dean's shoulders as he struggled and searched for purchase on Dean's sweat- and blood-slicked skin. His right hand encountered a band of charred damage where the mortal's bicep would have been but, somehow, there was one small patch of skin near his left hand and Castiel's fingers curled there. He clutched at the spot tightly even as the momentum threw the both of them backwards and sent them tumbling together down the hill.  
  
Castiel let out a grunt as the crust of the snow gave under their weight, leaving tiny cuts and scrapes behind on his skin as they fell together. Up above him was Dean Winchester's snarling face, what was left of it, black eyes blazing. Castiel had his orders, though, and knew that this man was perhaps hours from losing what little humanity that remained in him and then he would be lost to Castiel, lost to Father, forever. Gritting his teeth, Castiel brought up his left leg, knee connecting with Dean Winchester's chest, and he used their falling momentum to flip Dean off and over his head. There was an incensed snarl as Dean crashed to the ground on his back and began sliding, the ice and snow stained with red from where he'd landed, gore smearing across the snow.  
  
As quickly as he could, Castiel rolled himself over and up onto his knees, hands curling into the snow-covered earth, dead grass and chunks of bone scattered just beneath the crust of the cold. He launched himself at Dean, who was still laying disoriented on the ground just a couple of feet away, and caught him up, forcing him onto his stomach even as he wound his arms around Dean's struggling body. He slipped his right arm beneath Dean's, spanning it across his chest to grip that same patch of pale, undamaged skin on his shoulder and held Dean tightly to him.  
  
"In the name of our Father, you have been forgiven, Dean Winchester," Castiel muttered and that only made the man in his arms wrestle more frantically. He laid his left palm across Dean's forehead, cheek butted up against a spot somewhere between his shoulder blade and the nape of his neck and the damage ranged even there, with more flecks of sharp ice and frost buried deep into his flesh. "I shall not release you. Struggle if you must, but as our Father wills it, so shall it be done..."  
  
Those words spoken, Castiel finally brought the true force of his grace to bear, allowing it to flow through his limbs and seep through his vessel's skin, enveloping Dean Winchester in the warmth of his creator's love. The scream that was torn from Dean Winchester's throat was unlike that of any Castiel had ever heard before or since, escaping first as a rageful, animalistic roar of pain and confusion. Then, after several moments, the scream transformed into the all too familiar cries of a man in the worst pain of his existence. Castiel could feel the shadowed aspects being rent from the man and he tightened his grip, using that point of skin-on-skin contact as a focus. Dean Winchester's body arched hard against his, muscles straining to the point of ripping as Castiel forced his grace through and flushed the shadows out and away.  
  
Castiel knew that this was his only chance to save this man and now that it had begun, he could not stop for anything. His grace pouring into Dean Winchester's body was like a beacon in this black place and already, he could hear the shrieks and howls of advancing demon guards and their attendant hellhounds. He had to make sure as much of the black poison was gone before they were away – he couldn't remove it all, as much as he might have wanted to, as much as he might have wanted to wash this soul clean and new again and wipe away all the horrible memories, but there was not enough time. Never enough time.  
  
The screaming stopped and Dean's body went limp, sending them both slumping to the ground, his fingers finally going slack, the red-slicked knife landing on the ice with a soft **chink!** sound. Dean had stopped screaming and struggling, but his body was still wrenched by hard sobs that made his whole body shudder.  
  
"I know," Castiel whispered, relaxing his hold on Dean, left hand stroking over his forehead. "I know that it hurts. All I can hope is that you will forgive me, someday, but now we must be quick. They have sent the hunters after us. You must come with me, now."  
  
Dean didn't struggle but neither did he make any kind of move to stand, the purging of the contaminated elements from the pit leaving him as weak as a kitten and broken as a mirror. Gritting his teeth, Castiel unfurled his wings and, wrapping his left arm about Dean's waist, he managed to draw himself up into a crouch, body hunched and sheltering Dean Winchester's. Gathering what scraps of his grace together that were left inside him, he channeled that strength into his wings and used it to get the both of them off the ground in one mighty surge of feathers and flesh and bone. They were both weary, but Castiel's grace would be replenished when he returned home.  
  
Dean let out a soft sound of almost childlike fright as the ground grew further and further away, the cursed earth littered with bones and bodies and writhing creatures most other men would quake to look upon. He shook in Castiel's arms, breathing quick and panicked and Castiel tightened his grip; he could feel Dean Winchester turning his head, turning his ruined (but somehow still awfully beautiful) face towards him and Castiel caught a glimpse of his eyes. The black was gone, replaced with sharp, unmistakably mortal white and deep green. Their eyes met for just one brief moment and Castiel felt it like earth being displaced inside himself, something fundamental changing, and if anything, he held Dean Winchester closer, cradling him as he flew the both of them up and out of Hell.  
  
When he had carried Dean home and the painstaking process of healing him began, Castiel had been surprised to find a reddened imprint of his hand on Dean's shoulder, right where he had caught hold of the man in order to lift him up. He could feel the heat radiating off of the spot, almost like a sun burn, and no matter how many times he tried, the mark would not heal over. He had managed to heal even the oldest of Dean Winchester's scars, but this one would not budge.  
  
Allowing for the possibility that his father intended for this mark to remain, Castiel had left it, and when the time was right, he ushered Dean's soul back to the place where his body had been put to rest by his brother and the man named Bobby Singer. A secluded spot, deep in the woods, though as soon as soul and vessel were reunited, there was a concussive explosion of energy, leveling all of the trees in a hundred foot radius. At least it would allow Dean to see beyond the forest and help him to find his way to the road._  
  
"Is that why you brought me here?" Dean asks, a stung, accusing look in his eyes as he looks at Castiel. "Is this... is this how you're gonna try to get me to kneel? Bring me back down to the pit and wait for me to break? Is that it?"  
  
"Dean," Castiel begins softly, shaking his head. "This isn't Hell. In fact, it's about as far from Hell as you can get."  
  
"So, what, we're – we're in Heaven?" Dean blinked, eyes hooded, still suspicious as he looked at him. "Is that what you're tellin' me? I'm in Heaven?" There's a long, stricken silence before he speaks again, his eyes closing as he seems to brace himself for the answer to his next question. "Am I dead?"  
  
"No, you are still very much alive. You have my word," he promises. "I... just wanted to take you somewhere we could have some privacy. That's all."  
  
"So what do you _want_?" Dean's words are harsh, eyes boring into his when he opens them again, fear making way for knee-jerk anger. "What do you want from me, Cas? If you're wantin' me to kneel, that's not gonna happen, so if you're thinking you can just shanghai me up here and hang out until I change my mind, you're gonna be waitin' for a long time. You hear me?"  
  
Castiel lowers his head, shoulders slumping. "I had hoped to speak with you, to … try once more to make you understand," he whispers. Fingers curling into fists at his sides, he lifts his head and for just one moment, looks like his old, angelic self again – and sorry. "If only you would accept me, Dean. If only you would –"  
  
"What?" Dean asks, teeth gritting behind tightly pursed lips. "If only I'd _what_? Turned a blind eye while you made back-door deals with _Crowley_?"  
  
"I am the God you helped to make me," Castiel says, eyes sliding away from Dean's face. "All that I became, all the – all the feelings... the way you tied me to you, without ever even realizing you were doing it. You made me love the world again, made me see it the way you did. Simple, hardly perfect, but... so beautiful. I'd spent so many eons fighting, I'd forgotten what I was fighting for. I took my orders, I served my Father and that was _all that mattered_."  
  
"Cas..." Dean says, voice choked, quavering.  
  
"Then my father gave me orders to fetch a soul for him from the pit and being a good son, I did as he asked," he says, swallowing with effort as he shoves his hands into his pockets, head bowed. "Seeing you fight, seeing the way you never gave up, even faced with impossible odds, I – I came to respect you. You became the embodiment of everything I love about the world, about my father's creations. Never perfect, but... still so beautiful." His brows furrow, then. "I was prideful. I wanted to see my regard for you reflected in your eyes. I wanted you to see me fighting, see me persevere and feel what I'd felt when you fought against my brothers, rebelled against Lucifer and Michael, and you _won_."  
  
"Cas, what are you – what are you saying? Why are you tellin' me all this?" Dean asks, all traces of anger having bled out from his voice. Now there was only confusion, concern.  
  
"I was a good soldier and a good son, but I needed orders to follow. Now, I have won and I... don't know what to do with all that now rests in my hands," Cas says softly, withdrawing his hands from his pockets and holding them out before him, cupped and empty. "I said I would save Sam, that I would keep him safe and keep Bobby safe and I'll keep my word to you."  
  
"Why do I get the feelin' I'm hearin' a 'but' there...?" Dean asks wryly and when he looks up, Castiel's eyes are there waiting, meeting his squarely, and for a brief flicker, there's that familiar confusion. Swallowing around the knot in his throat, Dean then clears his throat roughly. "What do you want in exchange for that, Cas? There's got to be something you want in return for doin' all that."  
  
"Stay," Cas whispers. Dean's eyes widen and his mouth bobs open soundlessly, shocked. "Or you – I – I would only have you do what pleases you, Dean. Keep hunting, keep saving the innocent. But I do require a second. Someone I can trust. Someone to be my trusted advisor... and friend."  
  
"Oh, Cas – look, I – I don't know," Dean hedges, shaking his head.  
  
"You would not be my captive, Dean. As I told you before, I think you are most valuable to everyone if you are out in the world, doing what you do best. I know you don't believe me, but I care about you. Very much. But now I have the power to care for the rest of the world the same way I care for you. I can help so many people now, Dean. Can't you see that? I can do even more good, this way."  
  
"Yeah, I'm kinda havin' a hard time believin' you when I've still got chunks of Raphael's meatsuit on my BOOTS," Dean snaps.  
  
"Defeating Raphael was always the obstacle we were meant to overcome. You understood that, once," Castiel says, shaking his head sadly. "It was a war, Dean. There were going to be … losses. It was unfortunate, but inevitable. Many of my brothers met their end at my hands in the name of serving you and your brother in your struggle to stop the Apocalypse... but I would do it all again. For you."  
  
"Well, listen, if you're so keen on doin' me a favor, then spit those souls out and put 'em back in Purgatory where they belong."  
  
"I can't do that."  
  
"Why _not_?"  
  
"Because, I –" Castiel begins reflexively, only to catch himself. There's a pressure in his chest, in his throat but it's not the souls – those are nestled deep within his vessel. No, this is something almost as powerful. Almost overpowering. He takes a deep, unneeded breath and lets it out slowly – it's an affectation, unnecessary, but it gives him a moment to think. "There is a vacuum, an empty space that must be filled."  
  
"But why does it have to be _you_, man?" Dean counters. "Why do you have to be the one who takes all this on?"  
  
"Why do you do travel with Sam?" Castiel asks softly, lifting his gaze to meet Dean's eyes. "Why do you hunt? Why do you help people? Because it's what you know. It was how _your_ father raised _you_."  
  
"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure your dad didn't raise you to make deals with the King of Hell to get one up on one of your dick angel brothers."  
  
Castiel's shoulders slump and he looks away. "I thought, if I could be more... more than what I was, bigger than what I was before... maybe then. Maybe then you would finally see me. Being an angel of the Lord wasn't enough, being your friend wasn't enough, even being your brother – your family – wasn't enough."  
  
"See you? Cas, what're you – what're you talkin' about, man?" Dean asks, eyes narrowing as he shakes his head in confusion.  
  
"I told you once that my brothers, my father, kept me in Heaven... because of my doubts, but also – and especially – because of how close I was to you," Castiel says. "They could see, even more clearly than I could, then, what was happening to me. You fought and you questioned and you made me believe again, Dean. You made me see how my own faith had begun to flag. You helped me to understand that when you truly care about something you must question it."  
  
"Okay... and?" Dean says, holding out both hands.  
  
"And what he's trying to say, Dean, is that he's in love with you," says a voice behind him. Dean whips about and his eyes widen. Standing there, dressed in a white button-down dress shirt, hands tucked into his blue jeans, flecks of the still-falling snow in his hair, is Chuck. He offers Dean a small, friendly smile, though his eyes are all serious business.  
  
"Chuck!?" Dean blurts, his eyes bulging as he gapes at the man. He hadn't seen him in what felt like forever, but – "Are you dead?"  
  
Chuck lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head, his posture as relaxed as anything – it very nearly reminds him of the visions he'd had of Castiel in their bleaker future together after everything fell apart. "No, Dean. Nobody's dead," he says. "I'm really here and I'm really me. I promise."  
  
"But how? How are you –?" Castiel begins, only for his words to trail off mid-thought, mouth hanging open. "You..."  
  
"What? Cas?" Dean glances over his shoulder at him, confused, and can barely contain the gasp that wants to escape as he catches the look on Cas' face. Like he's seen a ghost.  
  
"It is me," Chuck says very softly, approaching the two of them slowly. Though his words are very obviously meant for Castiel, alone.  
  
"But – I stood in your presence, I fought beside you ... how –?" Castiel shakes his head in amazement.  
  
"You had the power the whole time, Dorothy," Chuck replies, letting out another, weaker laugh. "Sorry, uhh, you wouldn't get that one."  
  
"Listen, you little creep," Dean growls as he advances on Chuck, ignoring Castiel's pleading 'Dean, no!' and grabbing hold of large fistfuls of the front of Chuck's shirt. He yanks him up a couple of inches so that they're nose to nose and he stares the man straight in the eyes. "You'd better start explaining why you're here and why Cas looks so freaked out he'd rather set his head on fire than be within a thousand feet of you. Do it fast and do it now or I'll drop-kick your ass right off this cloud."  
  
"Dean!" Castiel barks out. "Would you _please_ let go of God and allow Him to explain?"  
  
"You _what_?" Dean glances at Castiel over his shoulder, face squinched in hopeless confusion. "What the hell did you just say?" Castiel gives him a meaningful look and nods, looking strangely both relieved and as anxious as Dean could ever recall seeing him, all of his former serenity having vanished. Eyes widening, Dean turns back to Chuck, who smiles warmly.  
  
"Hi, Dean," He says amiably, holding up His hand in a wave. "God. Nice to meet you."  
  
"Wh – are you kidding?!" Dean releases Chuck like he's been burned, rearing back a few steps and looking at Castiel. "Is he kidding?"  
  
"No, he's not," Castiel replies ruefully.  
  
"Jesus Christ," Dean murmurs breathlessly, shaking his head as he regards Chuck.  
  
"Sorry, no, he's not here. He's off surfing on the big island of Hawai'i," Chuck offers as an aside. He shrugs. "I figured it was the least I could do, after the last time I sent him down to hang out with you guys downstairs."  
  
Dean blinks, looking pole-axed, and just stares.  
  
"Okaaay, so – maybe I should just start? Yeah, I guess I'll start," Chuck says, biting His lip as He smooths the front of His shirt. "Gosh, this is intense. I've got the palm sweat goin' right now, big time."  
  
"Father. Please. I – I don't understand. I had the amulet and I _searched_ for you! I searched all the worlds I knew and I could never find you," Castiel says, shaking his head. His expression was bewildered, posture radiating hurt.  
  
"I know," Chuck says softly. "My terrestrial form shielded my true nature from everyone. You and your brothers, Dean's amulet, everything."  
  
"But – why? Why did you leave us?" Castiel asks, blue eyes betraying the hurt.  
  
"I... I didn't think you needed me," Chuck replies with a broken chuckle, holding out both hands. "It seemed like you guys had everything under control. I'd taught you all as well as I knew how. I – I looked down there, at what I'd made and … it broke my heart, Castiel. I'd sent my boy down to help them and they tore him apart and something in me _hated_ them for it. He was _my son_." His voice cracks even as He speaks the words, looking stricken. "You don't know what it's like, to lose a child."  
  
"I have lost more brothers than I can count," Castiel grits out, fingers curling into fists at his sides. "Many of them I killed in the name of trying to set things right, trying to protect the mortals in your stead, all the while knowing that my brothers and I were only ever going to be second best in your eyes. I followed your teachings, my orders -- I did the best I could –"  
  
"And you did, Castiel," Chuck says, stepping closer and reaching out, hands settling on his shoulders, gripping them gently. "You did."  
  
Dean watches the exchange wordlessly, averting his eyes as things grow more and more heated between the two heavenly beings. For just a moment, he remembers how he felt as a boy, when his mom and dad would fight – the same unpleasant, churning feeling in his stomach that he feels now.  
  
"I'm sorry," Chuck's saying and, when Dean peeks at the two of them out of his peripheral vision, he can see the shorter man reaching up, cupping Castiel's cheek. Castiel bows his head, eyes immediately falling closed. "I failed you. I failed all of you. I thought that – if I ran away, buried my head in the sand, that everything would sort itself out, that you'd all be just fine without me. But I was _wrong_, Castiel. I was... having an almighty temper tantrum and all of you suffered because of it. I'm _so_ sorry."  
  
Castiel's shoulders shudder and then he opens his eyes wide with a gasp, gazing up at Chuck. "Father, I – oh, I've – I've –" he begins, hand coming up to hover over his chest, where many of the purloined souls are nested.  
  
"I know," Chuck replies, reaching out with His free hand to grasp Castiel's. "You were trying to make it better, I know. But... Castiel, this – trying to fill my shoes wasn't the answer. You already had it and I know you know it."  
  
"Father –" Castiel shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.  
  
"What's he talkin' about, Cas?" Dean finally speaks up. "The answer? What does that mean?"  
  
"From the time that I made Castiel and all of his brothers," Chuck says, not taking His eyes from Castiel for even a moment, "they were all my faithful soldiers. They were a unit and Michael..."  
  
"Michael taught us to think of ourselves as fighters and nothing more. Expendable. Nothing special. Not like you," Castiel says quietly, though there's no trace of resentment in his voice as he speaks. If anything, his gaze is softer as he looks at Dean, then.  
  
"But from the moment Castiel decided to defy Zachariah and help you to escape, he made himself a target but he also made himself something else: one of the very few angels who has ever made a choice of his own free will," Chuck finishes, almost proudly.  
  
"Yeah...?" Dean says, frowning a bit. "Okay, so – ?"  
  
"So..." Chuck turns and comes to stand next to Castiel, slipping one arm around his shoulders. "What he's been trying to tell you for the last twenty minutes is that all he ever really wanted was to matter, to even just one person. To be more than just a solider or an angel or a child of God. To be loved." For his part, Castiel remains silent, head bowed. "What he was trying to tell you, you _monumental_ dumb-ass, is that it would take the love of all the people on an entire _planet_ to even come _close_ to how he feels when he's with you."  
  
"What –? Cas, is he for real?" Dean asks, brows knitting together as he looks over at the newly-fledged god, too startled by the revelation to even take umbrage at Chuck's insult. "Is that really – is that really how you feel? About, uhh... about me?"  
  
At last, Castiel lifts his head and meets Dean's eyes, his expression solemn. "Yes, Dean."  
  
"It's not every day that an angel of the Lord pwns an archangel and calls him his bitch," Chuck points out with a smirk. It coaxes a snort from Dean and Castiel shifts a bit, making a face. "Listen, I'll – I'm gonna go, uhh, for a bit. Let you guys talk."  
  
"But, hey – wait up here for just a damn minute, Pops," Dean says, holding out his hand. "Now that you're back in the de-luxe apartment in the sky, what about all those purgatory souls he's got swirling around in there, huh?" He jabs a finger at Castiel, wiggling it in the vicinity of his chest.  
  
"Oh, I have them," Chuck says easily, patting Castiel's shoulder. Castiel's expression is one of sheer panic as he looks over at Chuck. "I'll just swing by Purgatory and drop 'em off on the way. Hey, no, listen, I see the look. Don't worry about it. We'll talk when I get back, okay?"  
  
"You –?" Castiel sputters, lower lip quivering in abject terror.  
  
"No, no, no. Not that kinda talk, I swear," Chuck says as he steps away. The look he favors Castiel with is loving, sincere. "A real talk, this time. Just you and me. We've … got a lot of catching up to do. Lots of lost time to make up for."  
  
"Thank you," he says, not knowing what else to say, his voice so soft that only God would be able to hear it, and He does.  
  
It makes Chuck smile and He nods to His son, bending at the waist in a slight bow. "Seeya guys! Back soon," He says and, just like that, He's gone.  
  
"Unbelievable," Dean scoffs, shaking his head. "Get a load of that guy? God! Chuck is **_God_**. Man, I did _not_ see that one coming."  
  
"Neither did I," Castiel says, lowering his gaze.  
  
"Yeah," Dean chuckles, but the amusement is short-lived as he catches sight of Castiel's defeated posture. "Hey... Cas?" He takes a hesitant step forward, but then can't seem to stop himself – one step becomes two, two become four and then he's standing beside Castiel, hovering uncertainly. "You know, you coulda just come out and said something –"  
  
"I was trying," he replies, the words coming out sounding far more bitter than he'd intended.  
  
Dean buys some time for himself by bringing up his hand, muffling a cough against it. "Yeah – yeah, I guess you were," he admits. "Look, I – whatever you're thinking, whatever you think I am, whoever you think I am – I'm not that guy. I'm not some … stupid hero or knight or something, man. I'm just a guy. That's all. I'm just a dumb hunter who barely finished high school. I mean, I was as surprised as anybody when they told me I was Michael's vessel. 'Cause who the fuck am I? Right?"  
  
Castiel is silent for quite a long time before he finally speaks again. "There's a French proverb that says: 'From humble beginnings come great things.' You don't see a hero in yourself, Dean, because you're not looking with my eyes," he says gently. "When you continue to fight, even when there's no chance of winning, no chance you will ever be recognized for your efforts, your sacrifices... that makes you a hero."  
  
"Yeah," Dean says, letting out a huff of dry, rueful laughter. "A hero who kick-started the apocalypse by torturing souls in Hell."  
  
"Who was sent to Hell because he made a deal to save his brother," Cas counters.  
  
Dean frowns deeply at that and doesn't respond for a moment. "Is what he said true? Chuck, I mean?"  
  
"When he said I –"  
  
"When he said you were … you know..." Dean gestures rather than finishing the sentence.  
  
"Not were, Dean. I am. I am in love with you. Yes," Castiel says, voice a low murmur in his chest.  
  
Hearing those words, Dean sighs and something in Castiel feels like it's breaking. The last thing he expects is for Dean to move in close – into his personal space, for once – to lean in close. Close enough that his forehead is just brushing Castiel's. "Son of a bitch," he whispers, another sigh escaping. "How long?"  
  
"From the moment I took hold of you and banished the darkness with my grace," Cas replies, his tone pensive. "Since I felt your lungs take in your first gasp of breath when you awoke. The first time I stood before you as a man and looked into your eyes. Every time I fought beside you, no matter how bloody or hopeless the battle. When you had such faith in me, even though everything in you was telling you something was wrong. The moment when I saw your face as you were running out of the cabin when I was surrounded by fire and blackness." There's a few precious moments of silence – there aren't even any birds here to chirp or flutter their wings or land on the tree branches, just the muffled patter of snow landing on them and all around them. "Even now... when you came closer."  
  
A gust of breath is pushed from Dean's lungs, like a weak punch landed to his mid section and the inhale is just as bad – uneven, shaky. "I don't deserve it."  
  
"If we only ever got the things we deserved, then there'd be no room for hope, Dean," Castiel replies.  
  
At those words, Dean draws back, just enough to look into Castiel's eyes and, sure enough, he can see hope surfacing amidst the blue.  
  
When their lips finally meet, the snowfall tapers off and then stops, and a few precious rays of sun start piercing through the clouds to bathe the glade.  
  
  
  
_I think I'm turned around ... I'm looking up, not looking down ... and when I'm standing still, watching you run, watching you fall ... fall into me..._

**Author's Note:**

> * This is a =REPOST= of my very first ever SPN fic, way back in 2011. Don't throw things -- or, if you have to throw things, at least be kind enough to throw 'em underhand. *cringes like a wimp*  
* Nothing is mine. NOT A THING! All my pretty toys belong to Grand Poobah Kripke - I'm just yoinking them for a bit.  
* "Displaced" - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQ1AUUHuJ8Q


End file.
